


and home in a wildflower

by mikkal



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Flower Crowns, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Three time Noctis was given a flower crown and a time he gave one instead.(my piece for the lovely fullbloom zine.)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 107
Collections: Full Bloom Zine (Final Fantasy XV)





	and home in a wildflower

[one]

Ignis blinks at the scene in front of him and fails to smother a huff of laughter. “Did you two sleep out here?”

He gets only a hum in response. Which, fair. Noctis is a stubborn sleeper, not a hard one. Make one wrong move and he’s lurching up with a half-formed weapon in hand. It’s by practice and familiarity that keeps Noct asleep on the haven rock even with the commotion of the blooming dawn and Ignis starting breakfast.

And, Prompto continuing to knot flower stems together in a crown.

It’s a purple and yellow monstrosity, comically large and unlikely to fit Noct despite Prompto pausing occasionally to rest it cautiously on the side of his head for a fitting. Noct, for all his cat-like tendencies to wake with a simple touch, sleeps through it all; curled up on his side, head pillowed on his folded arms.

Ignis presses a mug full of coffee against his chin, watches Prompto’s fingers move deftly. “Any particular meaning?”

It’s possible he just liked the colors—and they are pretty together, bright dandelions and soft long blooms of an unfamiliar pastel purple flower sparingly caught with a dark blue stain. Ignis doesn’t believe it to be that shallow for even a second.

Prompto doesn’t answer for a long moment. He ties off the last stems of two purple clumps before gently placing the crown on Noct. With the position of his head, he can’t get it quite right. So, instead, it sits at a slumping angle, bringing to the world an image of old fae and sleeping princes, especially with the sun illuminating his face just so.

“Delphinium,” he finally says, sitting back on his heels and scrutinizing their friend, “and dandelions.”

Ignis nods. “Faithfulness and happiness.” And grins at Prompto’s surprised look. “Dandelions don’t deserve their unfounded reputation.”

His smile in return is blinding. “Big-heartedness and ardent attachment.”

“From you, or from him?”

Prompto’s expression softens, gazing dropping back to their sleeping prince. “Either way,” he murmurs, a blush to his cheeks. “Both.” Ignis doesn’t pry.

When Noct wakes up, it’s confused and groggy. He shifts the crown further onto his head without a word, seemingly content with his magically appearing flower crown. No one comments on it, except Gladio does laugh when he sees it, and he spends the rest of the day, even in town and on hunts, with a wreath of purple and yellow nestled in his black hair.

He’s never looked more like a king, Prompto laughs at some point. It earns him a full-body tackle into a nearby lake when he least expects it.

After Noct’s crown is placed in a safe place, of course.

[two]

Noctis finds Gladio in the almost-wild gardens on the other side of the lighthouse. He knocks on the worn fence before he ambles closer, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt. Gladio doesn’t even lookup, so focused on whatever he’s working on in his lap.

“You’re early,” he does comment though. Noct scoffs. “Don’t be like that. When you early for anything in your life?”

“I go to bed early.”

Gladio barks out a laugh. “Point.”

He sits next to him, relishing in the slow start to training. Maybe being early has its merits. And looks over to find his Shield carefully working on a flower crown. There’s a pile of two or three already made, but he seems to be paying special attention to this one.

Noct slumps against him, rocking up and down as Gladio moves. “Since when do you do arts’n’crafts?”

“Since forever.” The crown is made up of pretty white and blue flowers of equal number. “Stop bothering me or we’ll never get to training.”

“Not much incentive,” Noctis mutters, but concedes. He wonders if he got the urge to make the crown from the one Prompto made. The one that’s now sitting, carefully dried, in a spot of love in the boathouse kitchen for their return. “What are they?”

Gladio glances sideways at him. “Really?” At Noct’s nod, he sighs. “You didn’t ask Prompto.”

“Yeah, well, I’m asking you,” Noctis says.

Silence. Then: “White heather and blue violets.” He ties a heather and a violet together before threading it into the crown. “There aren’t a lot around here.”

Noctis frowns. “Then why those?” There’s a broken gap in the wilds further away, around the size of Gladio’s bulk.

Gladio is quiet, focused. He puts in a few heathers in random places to Noct’s eyes, adds in a clump of violets at the crown’s seam. Then he shifts to face Noct, amber eyes serious, and carefully places the crown on his brow. Noctis stares at him slack jawed and brushes it with cautious fingers.

“Seriously?”

He isn’t looking at him as he says, “White heather for protection and watchfulness. Blue violets for faithfulness.” He laughs somewhat bitterly. “And they mean ‘I’ll always be here.’”

Noctis swallows thickly. “But you weren’t,” he says in a small voice.

Gladio runs a hand through his hair. “I know. And I’m sorry. But we’re going to Altissia soon,” like Noct had forgotten, “and I just…I want you to know that I’m not leaving you. I’m here and I’ve got your back.”

He touches a blue violet almost reverently. “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he says, still sounding small. “Gladio, I need you. You can’t leave me again.”

“I _won’t_.”

[three]

Ignis folds over a page and drags his nail along the seam, carefully feeling the shape of it. Prompto watches him work, chin in hand and injured leg propped up. It’s fascinating to see each seemingly random fold eventually go from shapeless mass to a lovingly curated origami flower blossom.

It gets set to the side when finished, piled with several others in a dusty fruit bowl. He falters reaching for another of the photographs Prompto brought him from a worn gardening book.

“Pink,” Prompto tells him.

Ignis nods and starts folding a different flower compared to the soft blue one he just made.

It’s rare for them to get quiet moments like this for Ignis to work, just the three of them. The flowers and tools stay in the Lestallum flat least they be crushed by frantic chases in the long nights.

Since the Crystal took Noct, this is what Ignis has been doing between hunts and research: folding flowers and attaching them to a circular twist of floral wire.

Prom hasn’t seen him work since the first year and can’t help but ask one persisting question. Because it’s obvious who it’s for, but not so much anything else.

“What do they mean?”

He pauses mid-fold. “Pardon?”

Prompto snorts. “C’mon,” he says, taps the counter with a nail. Ignis’ clouded gaze snaps towards the sound. “Don’t be like that. What do they mean?”

Ignis shrugs, goes back to folding.

It’s Gladio, not as sleep as Prom thought, that replies: “Rosemary and cyclamen.” He smirks when Prompto manages to twist to glance at him. “Nice picks, blondie.”

More like coincidence, the photos he tore out being full-page pictures of those two flowers.

“Okaaay,” he drags out. “But what do they _mean_?” he asks Ignis again.

For a while the only sounds are Ignis’ careful folds as he finishes a cyclamen and picks up a slightly too thick sheet of blue construction paper Iris dropped off.

“Fidelity and love,” Ignis finally says, his voice thick. A small knot of regret forms in Prom’s stomach, but he ignores it. “For the rosemary.” His fingers fumble, crushing a petal. “And cyclamen for remembrance.”

And he leaves it at that. Yet it doesn’t seem finished. When Ignis falls asleep, burning out finally after a week of non-stop, Prompto digs out the flower language book Gladio pretends he got from his mother a decade and a half ago and slides a fingertip over the ‘c’ flowers.

_Cyclamen: a white, pink, or purple perennial flower which means remembrance, resignation, and good-bye._

[+one]

The Beyond is as and lifeless as he imagined, just as much as life had been. Ardyn wishes he could be disappointed by this revelation, but he can’t find himself to care much anymore.

He draws his fingers along the freezing rail leading towards the throne, humming under his breath. It echoes hauntingly, something rings hollow in his chest, yet he doesn’t stop until he’s slumping in the empty seat that once was to be his. He leans heavily on his fist, too tired. Far too tied.

Ardyn’s had dreams before. Dear Aera at his side. Even Somnus, more like when they were children than the misguided man he became. But it had been his nightmares that clung to him, matched this here and now more than anything else.

Forgive him for being hopeful once upon a time. Forgive him for thinking his reward for doing the gods’ will wasn’t going to be lonely and empty and oh-so-cold.

Guess he’s as foolish as man as he’d been as a boy.

His eyes close against the expansive room and sags in his seat. _What am I to do for the rest of my eternal afterlife_? he wonders bitterly. The sound of footsteps has his heart jolting, but he doesn’t open his eyes. His imagination, he’s learned, brings more ghost than not.

So, he startles when something brushes his brow and settles on his head. Ardyn lashes out, wraps a brushing grip around a wrist, and opens his eyes to see Noctis smiling at him. He thirty and shaven clean, wearing even cleaner casual clothes. In fact, he’s all-around cleaner than the stubborn, ill-guided boy Ardyn had known too well.

“You’re dead,” Ardyn crackles out.

Noct’s smile shrinks just a bit, but it’s still soft. He shrugs. “So are you.”

“…What are you doing?”

The King of Kings takes his hand back from Ardyn’s slackened grasp and reaches up to adjust whatever’s on his head. Ardyn takes it off once he steps away, cradles it delicately in both hands. It’s…

It’s a flower crown. Of blood red poppies and bright yellow daffodils. The yellow is almost blinding, dominating the shape of it with only a smattering of poppies. He stares at it, looks up at Noctis almost desperately.

“Why?” falls from his lips before he can stop it, a thick sob catching in his chest.

Noctis’ smile grows. “Why not?” He takes it gently to put it back on his head. “Luna helped me. Never did get the weaving down.” And then he takes a respectful step back, tapping his chin as he eyes Ardyn up and down. “We’re having dinner soon. Want to join?”

By gods, he’s completely sincere.

Ardyn’s heart seizes and he asks again: “ _Why_?”

His gaze flickers to Ardyn’s head pointedly before he takes another step back.

And _bows_. A hand flat over his heart, a slight bend to his waist. Noctis Lucis Caelum, the King of Kings, presents him with a crown and bows to him in a way royalty bows to royalty.

Ardyn can’t take it. Tears. Real, actual tears prick his eyes for the first time in hundreds of years. Poppies for eternal sleep. Daffodils for forgiveness. He covers his face with a trembling hand as he cries and cries.

Noctis stays and waits.

Then he walks side by side with Ardyn to dinner with Lunafreya.


End file.
